By Juxtaposition
by Kim Who Knows
Summary: Grantaire struggles to prove his worth against his own jealousy and deprication, all the while learning from his fellow revolutionaries the Enjolras he worships may not be exactly who he thinks.
1. Chapter 1

Of all the ABC, only Jehan deigned to be silent this day. Words, lovely words, were flowing from his pen like a lady's tears, and he could not bear the thought of losing them to the spoken word. So he remained silent as his companions bantered. Bossuet and Joly were the most vocal, turning their combined outrage against a flustered Combeferre, who had foolishly insinuated that a lady ought to be slender and tall as a newly planted sapling.

"Give them to me small and plump, that is what I say. Women are flighty creatures ; without weight on their bones, they would be swept away by every gust of wind!" Bossuet said, flinging his arms out to either side as though the wind had blown them there.

Combeferre stared at them over his book. "But 'slender' is the word of choice both by Homer and Virgil alike to describe the goddesses that grace their epics. Surely--"

"Surely Homer and Virgil lived in a dismal time full of dismal women if their idea of beauty was a half-starved giantess." Bossuet interrupted. Joly laughed his agreement.

Jehan's attention was snatched by Grantaire, who spoke very loudly and gestured hugely with his hands, the wine in his hand clearly the creator of whatever he was about to say. Feuilly and Courfeyrac, sitting at his table, were bemused rather than annoyed, although Feuilly carefully put the fan he was completing under the table and out of harm's way.

"My friends, I ask you: is it better a man should be drunk with wine or drunk with women? On the one hand, one may say that wine provides a less circumstantial drunkeness, an unconditional intoxication that is guaranteed to lift the heart and buoy the spirit! On the other hand, one may also say that being drunk with women is far the better of the two, for it is in constant supply! The bottle may grow dry, but women are always about!" He winked at Louison, who was crossing the room. She made a hasty exit.

"True as that may be, Capital R, both are fleeting and last no longer than the wine or woman is present," said Courfeyrac. "One might say that a deeper intoxication may be needed. Take for instance, our Apollo. Enjolras is intoxicated always, but neither by wine nor by women. It is an eternal intoxication of principle."

"And an eternity of drudgery and toil it is bound to be if he lives it without either wine or women." Grantaire took another long swallow of his wine. "Yes, our bold and absent leader--have you noted he is absent, gentlemen?--confined to the hell of sobriety forever. Tragedy."

Jehan sat up at this. The ABC had been in the Café Musain for most of the morning. Enjolras himself had been there at dawn, before the others, a political pamphlet from a city to the north in his hands. He had told them of its contents and explained that this group and its members were their kin in the battle for freedom. The news of like-minded men, students like themselves, had riled them up to the point that patrons from the front of the Café had begun to complain of the noise. Enjolras had eaten breakfast with them, and then had disappeared. In the havoc that was the student's conversation, Jehan had somehow missed his departure.

Combeferre also looked around him. "And where has his absence taken him?"

Feuilly brought his fan up from under the table and began to tamper with it once again. "Creating more sons of the Republic, I should think."

"No, no, for that he would have had to spread us all about. That is his way; send us all out to preach his gospel." Grantaire grumbled. He had reached the point of intoxication where joy gives way to melancholy. "He is with Marius, perhaps. His new favorite disciple." He said it with the same look an old dog has when a new pup has taken the love of his master.

"Marius follows principle." Feuilly observed.

Grantaire exploded. "And not the application of it! Were Enjolras to be cast aside, Marius would not care. Marius would cling to the cause and care nothing for its champion. He is the follower of thought and not of substance, and I, for one, call him heretic. For what deserves our loyalty if not Enjolras? The Republic? The Republic that may never be! I would let the Republic fade to nothing if it were to mean that Enjolras could remain a god among men."

The room had gone silent, all other discussion quieted. Words against the Republic were a violation of some perpetual code among the friends. Grantaire drank again, swallowing three long draughts from the bottle in his hand, draining it until it was empty. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off. A gamin, rather fat for his station, came charging in. "Monsieur Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac stood. "I am Monsieur Courfeyrac."

"A Monsieur M. sent me to tell you about the riot!"

Bossuet jumped to his feet. "Monsieur M. can only be Marius! A riot, gamin? Where?"

"Near the market. The one a few blocks from here. Monsieur M. told me to tell you that there's trouble for him and his friend."

Fieully said, "It is Enjolras." Grantaire paled, slamming his wine bottle down upon the table and slinging his jacket on over his shoulders.

Courfeyrac tossed the gamin a few coins, and as though by signal, the backroom of the Café Musain erupted into activity. The small details were left alone--Joly did not close the windows, Combeferre did not douse the candles-- in favor of grabbing pistols and coats. They took the private exit out onto the street, and went dashing along in a sweeping wave of hurry. Along the way, Grantaire was trying to break out of his inebriation. The insinuation that his idol was in peril had started him in the right direction, but he bit his tongue on purpose, in the hopes that the pain would further the transition.

When he arrived at Enjolras's side, it would be as a gallant servant, not a drunken fool. He would arrive and be the strong one, beating back rioters until he stood before Apollo himself, and then, finally!, then Enjolras would see that Grantaire was more than a wine cask. Grantaire was more certain with each step. Marius would be the weaker disciple then. Enjolras would see.

Grataire would prove himself.

* * *

Marius could not be certain who had begun the riot. All he had known was that when he came from his classes, Enjolras was at the gate waiting for him, a pamphlet in his hand. The two of them walked side by side, choosing streets at random in the general direction of the Café. Enjolras had been radiant with excitement and political fervor at the new writing from another Republican group. Marius felt foolish. For some reason, he had romanticized his own position with the ABC, making the storyline such that they were the only ones fighting for a higher cause, and that when the government toppled, they would be the ones with the credit. He had somehow not realized that Enjolras was in correspondance with others like them. 

They had landed themselves in the market around time for a meal, and had stopped at a street vendor's cart to eat. Marius was not sure how, but Enjolras had overheard conversation on another man's part that was slightly favorable to the Republic. Immediately, introductions had been made, and through an entirely unforeseeable course of events, namely, several more introductions and a chair being brought, Enjolras had wound up standing upon said chair, indoctrinating a crowd of quite a few listeners. Marius had been keeping watch when he saw the police coming around the corner, led by one of the street vendors, all three of them looking very upset. Why he had been on watch was still uncertain; no one had requested he do so. Somehow, the thought of Enjolras being arrested or discovered by the government was an unthinkable event. For even now, to Marius, the resistance was headed by Enjolras, no matter how many other societies existed with the same purpose, and likely thinking the same thing about their respective chiefs.

He'd pushed his way through the small crowd to Enjolras's side and murmured in his ear about his find. Enjolras had started to leave, to meld back into the crowd, when a groan of disappointment came from the listeners. It was clear that Enjolras had snared them with his passion. Marius tugged on his sleeve, but Enjolras had preached the Republic in worse circumstances than this, and if it meant bringing a few more Parisians to the ABC's side of the fight, he would risk arrest. He continued to speak, but did not remount the chair. The police had arrived and pushed their way through the cluster of people. The vendor came before them, squealing delightedly.

"That's 'im, righ' enough!" He said. One of the policemen pointed at the fair-complexioned student.

"What is your business with these people?"

"It is not my business. It is the business of all people." Enjolras was beginning to bristle, a wolf waiting for the fight to begin.

"And what might that be?" The policeman had his hand on the small club that hung from his waist .

"The freedom of man."

The crowd was beginning to disperse. If trouble could be avoided, they would avoid it. Cowards, Marius thought, and readied himself to fight. If it had been only him, he would have escaped and taught somewhere else. But Enjolras did not and would not retreat.

"One of those bloomin' students, I guess." The second policeman looked disgusted. Enjolras opened his mouth to say more, when without warning, the first struck out visciously with his club, catching the tall youth squarely in the ribs. He got two more blows in, another on the chest and one on the head before Marius put his fist across the man's mouth. Enjolras was making a strange noise, and Marius was bending to pull him to his feet and run when the crowd suddenly surged. They had been pulling back and away from the prospective fight, but now there was damage done to both sides, both those who had been listening to republicanism and those who still supported the old system. The crowd surged together in a huge melee of violence, the mob acting like a single entity, destroying everything in its path. Chairs and tables tipped, vendors carts were toppled, and in the middle of it all, as a gamin came dashing past, Marius caught him by the arm and sent him with a message and a silver piece to the Café Musain for help.

And then it was over. The policemen fired a shot or two into the air and the crowd disappated, as quickly as it had appeared. It had taken a moment to find Enjolras after the streets cleared, but he had gotten to his feet and apparently gotten a few good swings in of his own; there was blood on his knuckles and a man with a broken nose at his feet. Marius caught him as he started to sag toward the ground and brought him to a chair, the same one he had been speaking from only twenty minutes earlier.

"Tell me, is this the first riot you have caused?" Marius said, lightly. Enjolras shook his head, but smiled. He was panting. "Can you breathe?"

"Yes, yes." Enjolras made a gesture to waive concern. "Do not doctor me, Marius. Joly will do quite enough of that when we arrive back at the Café Musain. And likely the others as well." He winced and put a finger to his temple. It came away red.

Marius frowned. "I fear I may have to doctor you. May I see?" Enjolras turned his head toward Marius so he could see the wound. It was dripping blood profusely so the actual injury could not be determined. And at that moment, the ABC made their entrance.

At their head was Combeferre, striding purposefully with his short legs toward them, his face dropping when he saw Enjolras settled at such a strange angle. Behind him, in one group, came the rest, each one with expressions of various degrees of anger and anxiety. As they came closer, Grantaire broke from the rest and passed even Combeferre.

"The riot is over, I take it?" Marius shook his head. Grantaire seemed almost angry. "And once again, you have taken the brunt of the attack. Have you never learned to duck, Monsieur Enjolras?" He said, but the joke was without spirit. He knelt down as the rest of the group approached.

"What happened here?" Bahorel was furious. Enjolras was the leader of the band; Bahorel was the protector. Bruises on any of his friends did not sit well, and Enjolras's temple was a pale purple stained with red.

"The police," Enjolras said. Joly frowned.

"Breath deep, Enjolras, you sound as though you've raced across all Paris. May I…?" Enjolras nodded and Joly placed a hand on his side. "Breath in." Enjolras did, gritting his teeth and Joly winced. "Cracked, for certain. Only thing to do is wrap them and stay in one place as long as possible. Come on, we will go back to your apartment. I'll need to look at that head as well."

Grantaire jumped forward. "Come then, thou unbreakable Apollo, and let yourself be lifted by the lowly." Enjolras was uncertain, but allowed Grantaire to help him to his feet, supporting some of his weight. Marius came to flank the other side. No one present missed the angry shadow that crossed Grantaire's face as Enjolras met Marius's eye.

"Thank you, Marius. I will repay you for beating back that officer."

"None of that, Monsieur Enjolras. Any man here would have done it." Those present nodded fervent agreement with the modest reply. Everyone except Grantaire.

Grantaire grit his teeth. Marius, the new disciple. Marius, whom everyone adored. Marius, who had been here a matter of months and had already gained more esteem in the eyes of Enjolras than Grantaire had earned in years of adoration and worship. Marius…who had been the savior today. Grantaire had come too late again, and now, one more opportunity to show his colors had been lost. He would remain, for today, Winecask.

He placed a false smile on his lips and said, "Well, must we keep the wounded from care? Come along, or we will talk him to death." Grantaire took as much of Enjolras's weight as the proud revolutionary would let him take, all the while using his quick wit to try and bring a smile to those eyes. But there was too much pain, and Enjolras would not smile.

"Jolllly," said Enjolras, "How long can I expect to remain stationary and invalid?"

"Hard to be sure, but a week or two should see you able to walk about well enough."

Jehan cut in. "But never fear, Enjolras. One of us shall come and see you everyday to help fend off those harpies of boredom. I will stay with you today and tonight if you like." Jehan smiled that hopelessly idealistic smile. Enjolras did not respond, which was answer enough for Jehan, who left the group to return to his own apartment and gather his necessities for the night.

It occurred to Grantaire at that moment. Why not appoint himself as Enjolras's watchdog? Surely, the police would come looking for him after the riot and the damage done to property as a result. He would need someone there, someone strong, to be there to fend them off. His early scenario replayed itself again, with subtle variations. He would fight the police away from Enjolras's door, tell them lies and lead them away. Then Enjolras would see his worth. At last, Enjolras would see it.

"I should stay as well. Jehan is good company, but a terrible shot. Supposing the police come. Someone with a decent punch should stay." He tried to say it as though he did not care either way. He waited for the rejection. And it did not come. Instead, Enjolras nodded curtly. He winced at every movement now, and Joly was walking backwards in front of them, asking questions and probing the head wound with his fingers. As they neared the apartment, it became clear; Grantaire was staying as Enjolras's protector. Bahorel did not look pleased, and he sent Grantaire looks that said, _if anything happens, I will kill you myself_. Combeferre looked nervous, Courfeyrac and Bossuet looked surprised, and Joly and Feuilly were both eyeing him carefully out of the corners of their eyes. All at once, the realization of the responsibility Grantaire had just laid upon himself came.

He had taken on the safekeeping of the leader of the Republic.

I need a drink, he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras was stone as Joly pressed a cloth saturated with alcohol against his temple. The only outward indication of discomfort came as quick breath through his teeth and a clench of the fingers around the bedpost. He was sitting upon his bed, his coat removed, a tight wrapping of bandages around his torso. "To keep it still," Joly had said, but Grantaire was not convinced. Enjolras was doing himself proud now, the picture of bravery in the face of pain, but when Joly, Jehan assisting, had pulled the final bandage tight about his ribs, it had not been quite so. His chest was mottled with purple, nearer to black. The fair one's face had been tight and his breathing shallow. It had caused him pain, and Grantaire had looked away.

"It is done," said Joly, dropping the alcohol-drenched handkerchief into Jehan's waiting hands. To his credit, Jehan did not make a fuss about being asked to dispose of the bloodied cloth, but went and did so. It was only then that Grantaire realized he had not been asked to assist during the last hour's events. He sighed and crossed the room to stand next to Joly. As though his presence had been noted for the first time, Joly eyed the him. "Come then, Grantaire. Draw back the blankets, won't you?" Grantaire did as he was told, pulling back a simple bedspread to allow Enjolras to get beneath them with ease. "You are very lucky. Marius's punch deflected the blow to your head. It's a bruise, mostly." Enjolras did not speak until Jehan rejoined them.

"So it is you who are my guardian tonight, Jehan?"

Grantaire thought perhaps it would be easier if he cut his heart out and threw it on the floor to flatten it cruelly with his foot. It would spare Enjolras and everyone else the trouble. The poet? Fah! As though Jean Prouvaire could ever dream of being capable of protecting anyone. Leave off to your poems, Grantaire thought bitterly, and leave a man's duty to a man.

Jehan, oblivious to the animosity, smiled. "So it would seem. Since you cannot seem to take care of yourself alone, I must do it for you."

"And so he must." Joly was capable, sometimes, of being stern. He was wiping his hands clean with another handkerchief, mindful to remove every particle of blood from himself. No doubt he would be washing the night through. "Your ribs are cracked. But there is no irreparable damage, as far as I can tell. Keep still and they will heal. Your head as well. That should be all right in a matter of days. A week or so should see you able to move about. Let Jehan do as much as he can for you."

"One week?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

"Or so. The fracture will not be gone, but the healing will have started by then."

"And the Café?"

"The Café?"

"The Café Musain. We meet again officially in three days."

"I would advise against it."

"There is much yet to be done. We've nowhere near the reports we need. No news from Rue du Bacque. No report from Notre Dame. I cannot sit idly by."

"Then we will come here." Jehan said.

"The reports are coming from all across Paris, brought by messengers who have instruction to go to the Café Musain." Enjolras was working himself slowly into a state of righteous indignation. That was a dangerous attitude for someone in need of rest. It was one of fervor, one of action; already, Enjolras was pushing himself slowly up with one arm, as though it was his submissive reclining that was bringing on Joly's argument. All color drained from his face. Pain was carved into every inch.

In a burst of feeling, Grantaire said, "I will bring him. Carefully of course. I shall be as a glazier carrying a church window."

"You?" said Jehan.

"Me. Do you not trust me, Jehan?"

"That is not what--"

"I know what you meant. But I will do it all the same." Grantaire paused, holding his breath. "If Enjolras will permit it."

Enjolras was silent. His blue gaze danced across the room, slowly, recovering strength, before it lifted to meet Grantaire's eyes. " It is not safe. It is not pleasant. I am becoming known; my enemies recognize my face now as well as my words. What reason have you, wine cask, for your effort?" It was spoken as a matter of flippant curiosity.

Grantaire did not answer, because he did not know. His loyalty to Enjolras came from a depth inside of himself that he could not fathom. Or rather, he did not want to fathom. As long as his veneration was superficial, Grantaire did not want to concern himself with the actions that veneration implied. If he followed Enjolras in thought, sooner or later, he would be forced to follow him in action. Grantaire would be obliged by consience to fight for something. So he chose not to understand his own desires. The skeptic lowered his gaze in defeat.

As though the gesture was expected, Enjolras turned his face back to Joly. "Send Bahorel that day. He will do it." Enjolras eased himself back against the pillow. His face was pale against his golden locks.

"I have only one thing to offer you for the pain, my friend." Said Joly. From his bag, he pulled a short-necked bottle, not marked by a label, but marked by the tell-tale smell that came from it as Joly popped out the cork.

"Alchohol?" Taking the bottle from Joly, Jehan smelled it and made a face. "Not medicinal."

Grantaire sniffed the bottle and laughed. "Whiskey." The mere idea of Enjolras drinking whiskey, a drink for poor drunkards like himself, was supremely amusing. He could see its purpose. Whiskey was guaranteed to bring that dull feeling on quickly.

Enjolras shook his head.

Joly would not be swayed. He took the bottle back from Grantaire. "One swallow, Enjolras. You can sleep. It will dull the pain."

"And my senses."

Grantaire expected a demanding reply from the medical student; he was disappointed. Jehan instead stepped forward, took the bottle gently from Joly's grasp, kneeling by the bed so he was face to face with the defiant Enjolras. He wore an expression of extreme worry, with a string of compassion behind it. "Enjolras, _please_." Apollo turned his head to meet Jehan's eyes. "One swallow. I am bound to your side this night, and I cannot abide your suffering. I _cannot_." His voice was demanding and fiery. "You are my friend, Enjolras. Take the whiskey."

Enjolras was still, like the others in the room. Jehan's outburst had been powerful in its simple declaration of friendship, powerful and unexpected. Grantaire studied his demi-god's face. Was that…appreciation? Was he grateful? Grateful to be loved as more than a leader? Glad to be a friend and not a god? Was that possible? Slowly, Enjolras brought one hand up and took the bottle. It was disturbing, to see the untainted chief throw his head back and take two swallows of whiskey. The most alcohol any of the ABC had ever seen their leader drink was the casual sip of wine with dinner, or a swallow of beer to seal a deal with another group of revolutionaries. Never more than that, until now. The bottle was returned to Jehan without words. The poet took it, smiling gently, and put the whiskey into a dumbfounded Joly's hands, whose gaze flickered between Jehan and Enjolras.

The latter smiled weakly. "There. One swallow for each of you." He had deflated against the pillow, looking desperately in need of sleep.

"I'll…just leave this here." Joly put the bottle on the small table in the middle of the room, fastening his jacket, then his coat, even though it was still warm weather outside. Grantaire smiled. Afraid to catch cold, he thought. His smile faded quickly as Joly added, "But not for you, Grantaire."

"Far be it from me to steal the liquid happiness of a patient. Well, Enjolras, we'll make a tavern-rat of you yet." He said, half-sulking. Joly said his farewells and closed the door behind him. "Is the whiskey going to your head yet?"

"Grantaire." Enjolras closed his eyes.

"Yes?"

"Do you want to do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Take that whiskey and drink yourself into silence." Jehan cast Grantaire a sympathetic look, then took up a pen and inkwell and begant to scribble something in his book.

"The abstinent one asks me to partake? But I will not." Both his companion's eyes looked up to meet his own. "I have no desire to see you hung, Monsieur Apollo, and supposing the police come? Will Jehan charm them with his poetry? No, when a man speaks to the police, it must be with a manly air. Jehan is a romantic; you are an invalid. That leaves me. Once you told me that a drunkard is no more a man than a pigeon is a swan. Tonight, I deign to be a man." Grantaire folded his arms across his breast. The look on Enjolras's face--was that interest?--both amused him and set his heart to thrumming with pride.

Perhaps it was the whiskey, but Enjolras smiled slightly before he closed his eyes once more and slept.

* * *

"When did you learn parlor tricks, Jean Prouvaire?"

"What?"

Grantaire continued. "Parlor tricks. I knew a gypsy woman once who could make her clients think whatever she wanted them too. I wasn't aware that you knew the same trick."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Whiskey, Jehan, whiskey! You convinced _Enjolras _to drink whiskey. So when did you learn the trick?"

Jehan put his book down. "Oh. Hardly a trick. It's only natural."

"Natural?"

"Yes. Really, Grantaire, have you no eyes?"

"Two, actually."

"Do you ever use them for anything?"

"On occaision."

"Then--never mind."

"No, no. Elaborate, poet! That's your job."

"Be serious."

"I am." Grantaire rose from his chair and began to meander about the room. A simple table with three chairs, a large window with huge black shudders, and the bed in the farthest corner. There three bookshelves, all filled with leather-bound, expensive volumes. They were the only thing in the modest dwelling that pointed to Enjolras's wealth. "Say what you meant to say."

"Grantaire, did you know that I knew Enjolras before the organization of the ABC?"

"No." He was surprised. He had known about Combeferre and Enjolras's previous association, but had not expected the militant Enjolras to be affiliated with the romantic Jean Prouvaire.

"I did. We met in school. Did you know that they require courses in literature, Grantaire?"

"Yes. I passed them. Before I stopped attending."

Jehan was smiling wistfully, his eye on nothing in particular. "I passed them, too. Enjolras was studying under the same professor. We often sat next to each other in the classroom; studied together in the evenings. We enjoyed each other's company because we were both ignorant of Paris; I had left home, and he had been forced out by a father who did not appreciate his political genius. I did well in the class because poetry was my passion. Enjolras struggled because he did not see the need for it. He preferred Malory to Tennyson, the concise to the eloquent."

"Enjolras…struggled?" It was blasphemy.

Jehan suddenly sat upright. He jabbed his quill in Grantaire's direction. "That is my point!"

"What is?"

"The reason I was able to bring Enjolras to the realization of his need for relief was because I approached him as a human being." Grantaire did not speak. Jehan, in one of his moments of masculinity, was in a fervor. "You desire him to have no flaws; I expect him to have them! You wonder why he refuses your adoration? Because he does not want it. Enjolras tires of being the revolution's Apollo. When I speak to him face to face, as a friend, not as a follower, as an equal, not a serf, he listens. He listens because at last, he is seen as Enjolras and not as a nameless incarnation of the republic." He paused, calming. "Grantaire, you cry to him, and he ignores you. I whisper and he listens. Because he knows that I am his friend. When you prove that, he will listen to you, too."

"I am not his only worshiper." Grantaire's pride was wounded, baying like a injured mule inside his head.

"No, that is true. But you are the only one who continues to profess loyalty to something you know nothing of. Combeferre worships his friendship. Courfeyrac worships his politics. Bahorel worships his will. Bossuet worships his wit. Feuilly worships his compassion. Joly worships his idealism. I worship his loyalty. We worship his strengths, but recognize his faults. We grant him his humanity. You are the only one of us who expects him to be perfect. So he tries. He tries to be all the things we worship in him at once, and if he ever dies of something, it will be partially for his ideals, and partially for us."

The situation suddenly seemed so absurd. Grantaire laughed and dropped back into his chair next to Jehan. "So we kill him slowly."

Jean Prouvaire stared at Enjolras, sleeping peacefully. A deep sadness flickered across his eyes, then settled there. "So it would seem."

They both were silent and somber until the candle on the table flickered out and plunged them into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wow. Well first of all, I'd like to thank those that reviewed the last two chapters. When I started looking into writing Les Miserables fanfiction, one of the first things I noticed was that reviews seemed to be few and far between (mostly because the fandom is FAR too small for such a good book) even on good pieces. So to get twelve reviews on two chapters is great! Thanks so much for all your response! _

_Also, don't worry. The character 'Adelle' is only a cameo for this chapter. Don't worry, she's not coming back. In general, I dislike OC's, preferring interactions between canonical characters, but she had to exist in this chapter to make my next point about Enjolras. So no worries, gals, she's not a Mary Sue. And also, she's the only one I own. Don't own anybody else. There, now I can't be sued. :)_

* * *

Grantaire knew pain. His first memorable experience with it had been when he was seven. With his brothers and cousins, he had clambered up a tree, only to fall out several feet from the ground. He had hurt his wrist badly, but it healed. His subsequent experiences were more menacing; the death of his closest brother, being mugged his first week in Paris. Some experiences were physical, some were not, but all dealt with pain, cutting and biting into his soul. But there were few things that hurt as much as rejection.

The first time that Enjolras looked at him and said, "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?", Grantaire had been surprised. He had come to the Café Musain as a companion to Bossuet, who shared his appreciation for wine and women. He was sober. These students fascinated him, radiating the light of purpose, illuminating his own, unassuming life. Enjolras had been at the forefront of them, the sun amidst a crowd of stars. He looked Grantaire, sitting quietly in the corner, and said, "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?" He had said yes. "Pass those books up here, to me." Grantaire had done so, and immediately had burned with satisfaction knowing he had been allowed a chance to ascend to the skies with this sun and his chorus of stars.

The second time, he had been drunk. It was his third meeting with the ABC, and he came inebriated, prancing through the door with all the grace and subtlety of an rhinoceros, disrupting the higher thoughts of the others. Enjolras had put down his papers and said again, "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?" At the time, this phrase signaled happiness and acceptance to the skeptic. He answered in the affirmative, then felt for the first time in his association with the students, the pain. Enjolras had changed in an instant from a life-giving sun, to a death-dealing inferno. "Get out. Re-bury yourself in your wine casks." The pain had been excruciating, as though he had passed through one of the plagues of Egypt. But he had gone.

The third time, he realized that this was the new game he had committed himself to. Enjolras used the phrase often. "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?" became both a dreaded and anticipated ritual; dreaded, because often, it ended in harsh words and that ever present pain, anticipated because once every long while, Enjolras would look Grantaire in the eye, as though reminding himself that the pitiful drunkard was a man after all, and the task would be given and completed. Then came the happiness, and for a short time, Grantaire could imagine he was more than a disappointment.

So when Jehan departed for classes, leaving Grantaire alone with Enjolras for a few minutes before Feuilly would arrive to take his place, and Enjolras looked up and said, "Grantaire, do you want to do me a favor?" Grantaire was both hopeful and depressed.

"You know I do." Whenever that cursed phrase was used, Grantaire found it within himself to be deathly serious.

Enjolras was sitting up in bed, several pillows behind his neck for comfort. The sun was spreading slowly across his knees as the sun rose, shining through the curtainless windows. His hair was unbound and untidy, but there was more color in his cheeks, the deathly pallor of the night before disappating in the morning light. "Come here. Look out this window." Grantaire came. "Can you see the clock on that shop down the street?"

"The red one?"

"Yes. What time does it read?"

"It's far away, but…around eight o' clock."

"Then would you like to do me another favor?"

"Of course."

Enjolras shifted himself on the bed, leaned over slightly to see the rest of the room better, grimacing. "In that drawer. There, at the table. You'll find a money there." Grantaire was ruffling through the pieces of random collections. A pen, a nail, a key. He pulled out the shiny currency. It was substantial.

"I have it."

"Good. Go down to the street with the hat shops; you know it?"

"Yes."

"You'll find a girl on the corner, leaning against the last shop. Give her that, and take what she gives you."

Grantaire felt amused, and could not resist a jest. "A girl on a corner? Payment for a night of revelry, perhaps, virgin Apollo?"

"You will not find it amusing when you see her. Go. She is probably waiting already." Enjolras settled back against the pillows. His ribs were plainly affecting normal routine; his voice was slightly breathless, as though he had run a long way. There was still a strip of gauzy material across his temple. Joly had not been by yet to change the bandage.

"And leave my station? Bahorel would tear the hair off my scalp. No, no, I will run this errend when Feuilly comes."

"Grantaire. This is of the upmost importance, and cannot wait. Go." It was said in the tone of an angel commanding a toad. Grantaire went.

Once out of Enjolras's presence, the building developed a persona of its own. The walls seemed tighter, the people dirtier. That was always the way it was. Enjolras walked across a room of beggars, and in his immediate wake, they seemed noblility, he swept through a field of frogs and their croaking became a chorus. He corrected the world's failings, like a Saint among the sinners. So what did Enjolras correct in Grantaire?

It was the question the skeptic was still considering when a man bumped into him as he exited to the street. The hundred-sous piece in his hand went skittering away. Grantaire swore angrily, preparing for a brawl to settle the offense, but stopped. It was Feuilly, already stammering an apology. His large green eyes were full of that expression of repentance that only an orphan can truly conjure. The sorrow they have experienced in such a short life allows them a deeper pool of emotion than those who have never lost everything. Grantaire bent and retrieved the money.

"Pardon me, Grantaire." Feuilly said. He spotted the coin and said, "What errand are you on?"

"Something for Enjolras. Some ridiculous thing. I'm to meet a 'girl on the corner'." If it had been anyone but Feuilly, Grantaire would have made a very vulgar remark. But apart from Enjolras, Feuilly was the most clear-minded, with a crystalline conscience. Perhaps years of living on the streets had not affected him. When Grantaire had heard one of the ABC was an orphan, and a poor one at that, he'd expected someone fluent in argot and profanity. What he had gotten was a soul that had climbed above the mire and instructed itself in beauty.

"At the hatshop?"

Startled, Grantaire started down the street, blustering. "Yes. Shouldn't you be in there, on watch?"

"Of course. But I think I am needed here even more."

"Oh?"

"You're going the wrong way."

"No, no, this is the way…"

"Well, yes, that is the way, but it is not the quick way. Come along, Grantaire. I'll get us there and back in time for breakfast."

"Are you certain you know to which hatshop I am going?"

" 'A girl on the corner' that is what you said."

"That's right."

"Then yes, I know where we're going. To see Adelle."

"Adelle?"

"She's the girl on the corner."

"How is it that everyone in Paris but me knows this girl?"

"Not everyone. Just Enjolras and me. Nobody else even knows she exists. I'd be willing to bet anything on it."

Neither man said more. They continued down the street. Occaisionally, Feuilly would point to an alley or a shop and say, "In here," or "Through here,". It was a different Feuilly than came to the Café and worked tamely on his fans. This Feuilly was commanding; when other men scowled at them in the alleys, Feuilly scowled back. This was the orphan Feuilly who had lived on the streets, penniless and ragged until somehow he had found a means of support. Deftly, he swept through dirt filled streets and vaguely threatening buildings until the two of them burst out of an alley and into the well-lit lanes of the shopping district. Feuilly's way had indeed been faster, though Grantaire would never venture to take it alone. A pair of well-dressed ladies glared at them before continuing on their way.

"There's the shop," said Grantaire, "so where is the dame?"

Feuilly snorted, amused. "Hardly a dame." He pointed at the building. It was a tall, red shop, with poorly-made windows that were filled with well-made hats. Ladies bustled in and out of the large wooden door. "Hush. Watch."

"Is that her?"

"Who?"

"The one in the green hat. She looks in need of money."

"No, Adelle does not own a hat."

"Enough of this game!" Grantaire frowned. "If I am to be forced into playing, I should have a chance to know its objective." Feuilly was silent. "Come now, that's only fair."

"You wish to know the game's objective?" The orphan said at last.

"I do."

"Well, there she is." Grantaire looked up in surprise. It was she; a girl, on the corner, as Enjolras had said she would be. Immediately, the drunkard regretted his mockery of his task. This was no belated payment to a prostitute. This was something very different.

Feuilly moved forward. "Be kind, Grantaire." As they approached, Grantaire began to feel a sense of revulsion mingled with interest; this girl both disgusted him and intrigued him. He could see her clearly now. She was small, the size of many a French child, more given to starvation that satisfaction. A child she could be called no longer, neither was she a woman, though already clad in the garish costume of a whore. She stood with head downcast, ashamed as the rich passed her, curling their lips in mocking smiles and crooked, leering grins. She carried a basket. She looked up when Feuilly called her name. Suddenly, she seemed unconcerned with the revulsion of those around her.

"Monsieur Feuilly!" Grantaire resisted the urge to take a step back. How vulgar! The girl's teeth were deeply blackened with rot. Her corroded smile faded as she looked beyond Feuilly's shoulder. "Where is Monsieur?"

"Monsieur is taken ill."

"The fever?" Her eyes grew large. The whites were slightly yellowed. "A girl in my bordello died of that."

"No, no, Adelle, nothing of the sort. He is already recovering."

"Is there anything I can do? I know all kinds of people, you know. I've been around and back again." She laughed. Grantaire bit his lip. At least that was not repellent. Adelle's laugh alluded to the carefree girl she may have been, if fate had dealt her different cards. "Met a woman just last week who owes me a favor. She's got a mind for herbs and the like. Oh, I don't like the sound of Monsieur being ill!" She seemed suddenly distressed. She looked at Grantaire for the first time. "Who's he?"

"He's an acquaintance of Monsieur." Grantaire noted that he was not introduced as Enjolras's friend.

"Have you a name, Monsieur Acquaintance?" Adelle said. Her rotten teeth reappeared as she smiled.

"Grantaire." The skeptic stared at her. She shut her mouth self-consciously. She dug into her basket.

"This is all I have for Monsieur. Took me days to find it, but…here it is, all the same." She pressed into Feuilly's hands a few tattered pieces of paper. Grantaire could see a sprawling script of words, written in bad handwriting, the ink fading slightly.

Feuilly cast him a glance. "Monsieur sent payment."

Adelle backed away. "I couldn't take money from a sick man. Suppose Monsieur needs it? I'll make my own money."

Feuilly was adament. "Monsieur wishes you to have it." Adelle looked back at him with equal fervor.

"I will not." She turned and started to flee. Grantaire felt a swell of pity. He grasped her arm as she tried to pass him.

"Monsieur is making a gift of it. Here, Madame, take your payment." He found it strangely easy to call Enjolras 'Monsieur'. Perhaps he would utilize this new name as a secondary term to Apollo. He pushed the money into Adelle's palm. She stood still a moment, staring at the clean money in her grimy hand. Her eyes, which had seen much sorrow, were glowing with hope as she met his gaze. "Tell Monsieur I am forever in his debt." she said, and then she was gone, slipping back into one of the many alleyways along the streets.

Grantaire looked after her. There was a new feeling, breaking through the layers of his skepticism. It did not have a name at first, but as it grew, he knew it for what it was; love. The charitable feeling lingered even as Feuilly led them back through the alleyways to Enjolras's street. At the door to the apartments, Grantaire pulled Feuilly aside to avoid other tenants.

"What is Enjolras's purpose? Surely, these scraps of paper are not worth what he paid her?"

Feuilly smiled. "It is not about the papers."

"Then what is it about? Enjolras does not take time to court, and even if he did, it would not be with some half-starved gamin prostitute. Why pay her for this trash?"

"Compassion, Grantaire. He seeks to save her from her fate."

"But why bother for just one, worthless gamin? Surely he has better uses for his money." Grantaire meant it lightly. But Feuilly's face changed. Anger suddenly boiled in those green eyes.

"Have you no soul, Grantaire? No compassion? Has your love of wine overtaken your love of your fellow man? Because you choose to wallow in the mire, do not expect others do the same. Perhaps what you see is trash is worth more than you could ever imagine." The angry grimace wilted to a sad, ironical frown. "There was a time when Enjolras paid me for my trash."

Grantaire bit his lip. "What?"

With a sadness in his eyes that Grantaire had never seen there before, Feuilly began. Grantaire was clever enough to stay silent throughout. "My parents died in debtor's prison when I was still small. The prison hardly wanted a lone child to guard, so they simply…let me go, expecting me to starve, no doubt. I spent the first years of my life fighting for every breath and every day in the underbelly of Paris. I stole, I mugged, I rioted, all in the name of survival. But it was never what I wanted." From inside his waistcoat, Feuilly pulled a fan, spreading it open to reveal its masterful design. A painting, of Notre Dame at dawn, exquisite and elaborate. "I wanted to do this. I painted what I could on scraps of paper I stole from bookshops and the like. That was how Enjolras found me. Painting, on those steps after dark, trying to see by the light from inside." He pointed to the steps of the apartments. "He was coming home. He passed me on the stairs. I did not think he even noticed me, but I noticed him. I went back to trying to paint, in the darkness. I did not expect to see him again, you understand. Then, I was not Feuilly. I was simply a half-starved gamin with his trash."

Grantaire pursed his lips. This was not the type of conversation he was accustomed to. These confessions and inner ramblings were almost always directed toward Combferre. He recognized the sanctity of the moment and kept his questions at bay. "But Enjolras did come back. He brought me a candle. I still have it, in my apartment. He said nothing, and I kept silent. I waited for him to scream at me to leave this place, to remove my filthy form from his property, but he said nothing, only watching me paint with my charcoal stick." Feuilly paused. There were tears in his eyes. "When I had finished, he still said nothing, just bent and sat beside me. He put a bag full of money into my hand. It was the most money I had ever seen. Then he said, 'Monsieur Artist, may I keep this work?'" The orphan closed his eyes. When he opened them there was a new light."That night, with Enjolras's money, I ate my first true meal since my childhood. In the subsequent weeks, I was always on the stairs, and he would always come to meet me. I would paint for him, then he would buy whatever I had painted. In time he began to bring me more than money; books, friendship." Feuilly looked up, and Grantaire knew the tears there for what they were. Not sadness for a hard life, not mourning for the loss of his family, but gratitude for the compassion of a stranger.

All at once, he understood.

"He is saving Adelle from prostitution like he once saved you from starvation?"

"Yes. The money he gives her is enough payment for her to live for a month. She needs not sell herself as long as Enjolras pays her. But like me, he pays her for something. He will not abide leeches and parasites. When he gives, he gives for something, usually something he does not need." Feuilly brandished Adelle's papers. "These papers? Notes on republican movements in the underground. Enjolras will already know everything that is written here. But to Adelle, she is earning her keep. Paying her for this…trash…preserves her pride. In time, I suspect, Enjolras will find someway for her to support herself. It was he that introduced me to fan-making, you know."

Grantaire stood still. He could not bring himself to speak. He was confused. For years, he had worshiped Enjolras the Leader, Enjolras the Revolutionary, Enjolras the Demi-god. He had followed in the wake of this titan as he pushed aside the ideals of past generations to create a new world, one in which freedom reigned unbridled. He had followed the exploits of the master planner as he consulted with others of similar vision, weaving a web of alliances to trap unsuspecting traitors. He had never expected to follow Enjolras the Friend, Enjolras the Philantropist…or Enjolras the Angel. The skeptic felt his skepticism challenged. He felt a rush of loyalty. He would follow Enjolras to the very bowels of hell if it were asked of him.

As though aware of Grantaire's inner thoughts, Feuilly clapped him on the shoulder with a knowing smile. "I think, Grantaire, you have had your first true introduction to Les Amis de l'ABC. We do not only plan barricades; we fight for freedom in the most miniscule of ways. Keep this in mind the next time you come to the Café Musain. Enjolras may yet call you disciple, Grantaire."

With that rush of loyalty still coursing through his veins, Grantaire could think of nothing he wanted more.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Leave a review on your way out!_


	4. Chapter 4

_ Um...hi? Sorry this took so long. I was distracted by other fandom, but I am back now! Enjoy!_

* * *

Morning in Paris. The city woke much like a man, slowly, angrily, the marketplace sluggishly beginning to fill, the churches reluctantly starting to toll their bells. As the sun continued to ascend, the people continued to move around and around, eddying in some places, the stream flowing free in others. It was a great gathering, like the children of Isreal entering the promised land. 

Amongst it all, Bahorel had quickly singled out his greatest love: food.

Not seriously, of course. Family, then friends came before food. But at the moment, after a long night of revelry in a…questionable sector of Paris, he would gladly have given his own arm for a piece of bread. Luckily, the vendor only required money.

He flipped the coin with his thumb in the general direction of the vendor and took the meal eagerly. He took another two steps, reconsidered, and tossed another coin, selecting a small brick of cheese as well. Who could say whether Enjolras's cupboards would be stocked?

Avoiding a puddle, Bahorel stepped back onto the cobblestones, thinking. It wasn't a particularly unusual day in Paris, the shops busy, the people hurried. But there was a stink in the air, a vague ominous feeling that settled in Bahorel's chest, a solid weight.

Enjolras's building loomed above him soon enough, and the journey up to his door was uneventful, except for the man and woman having a rather amorous moment on the stairs. They moved out of his way, shifting their bodies to allow him just enough room, and he passed them by without a second thought. This was, after all, Paris, and that was no uncommon sight.

Bahorel did not bother to knock, but entered to an odd sight. Grantaire was standing upon a chair, a book in his hands, reading loudly, his hands engaged in animated gestures. Enjolras sat on the corner of his bed, a simple white shirt and plain brown breeches his only current clothing. On his face ghosted the faintest hint of amusement.

Grantaire acknowledged his entrance with a congenial wave and turned his attention back to his reading. He puffed his chest out to give the illusion of a feminine bosom, and said in a ridiculously high voice, "'Oh, hapless maiden, how I fear for thee!'" He slung one hip out to the side in another feminine parody and said in a tone even more ridiculous than the first, "'Waste not your fears on me! Guide your own fortune.'"

"What, Capital R? Are you now a poet?" Bahorel interrupted, setting his cheese and bread upon the table.

"Do you doubt me? I have the eloquence of Plato and the wit of Aristophanes." He continued reading, this time taking on a masculine air. "'Armed at all points the warrior came, But driven before thy rising flame He rode, reverting his pale shield, Headlong from yonder battlefield.'"

"That is enough. And you have Sophocles to thank for your poetry." Enjolras said, and Grantaire let the book crack shut. He leaped down from his chair.

"How have you been, Enjolras?" Bahorel said. He surveyed his friend carefully. There was a smattering of color in those cheeks, though he could see yet the bandages about his chest, peeking over the top of his shirt.

"He has been entertained, at least." Grantaire broke in, smiling widely. "After all, it is the duty of the peasant to please the lord, or the mortal to please the god."

"The day has been quiet." Enjolras said. Bahorel quirked an eyebrow. "And would have been quieter yet had that one been still."

"That was plain. Have you a waistcoat? The Café is opened and beckoning. Courfeyrac is there, and Jehan. The others are likely to beat us to it as well unless we leave soon." Bahorel cast a glance around the room. It was tidy, of course, and all seemed well. Despite that, ominous feeling wound around his gut like a serpent and clamped down its venomous fangs. Shaking his head, Bahorel continued. "I can hardly allow you out on the streets wearing _that_."

"Of course not," Enjolras said, and that shadow of amusement that had been on his face spread thickly to his voice. There were times when Enjolras could be deathly serious, those blue eyes focused on a obstacle, hands steady, voice strong, and other times when he could have been a child for his mildness. This was clearly one of his gentler moods. Bahorel cast a look in the direction of Grantaire, who was currently engaged in sifting through a drawer. Perhaps the wildness of the drunkard was taming the wildness of the angel.

Grantaire let out a cry of triumph. "Here we have it!" He brandished a coat in the air, a rich coloring with a hint of gold along the cuff. "This should suit you." He tossed it casually at the bed, where it landed almost perfectly in Enjolras' outstretched hands. He winced slightly as he caught it, but maneuvered it around and onto his shoulders, refusing Bahorel's move to help. Grantaire had moved on. He was now at the table, surveying the brick of cheese.

"A gift," Bahorel said and to other man's inquiring look.

"Good. Are you hungry, Apollo?" He raised the cheese and sniffed at it. "Fresh enough," he muttered and sliced a thick piece with a nearby untensil.

It was laughable. Utterly laughable. Grantaire went busily from one end of the room to the other, eagerly working here, assisting there. He was almost suffocatingly helpful. Bahorel would have killed him long ago had he been undergoing the same treatment. The strange thing was that Enjolras seemed calm, content, even, allowing Grantaire to play housekeeper. It was odd behavior for him. There was a fierce pride in Enjolras, one that hated being helped, or fussed over. Why allow it now?

Enjolras finished the final button on his coat and rose to his feet, facing the window. Grantaire stopped his busy movement and stood still, watching. "Are you coming? We will miss everything if we don't leave now." Bahorel said, more to break the silence than to remind anyone of their urgent appointment. He could see the reflection of his friend's face in the window. The face was hard, but the eyes were soft. Was he paler, or did the window make him appear so? Bahorel frowned. Hadn't he had more color a moment ago? The fair-haired youth nodded slowly and turned, holding himself stiffly. He walked to his bookshelf and reached up to pull a volume down, stopped short and hissed, drawing into himself the way an animal does when it has been speared through the heart.

"Apollo?" Grantaire said. There was a moment when all was still, the drunkard frozen, the student waiting. Enjolras was tight, tense on his feet, arms curled around his sides.

"Still sore, then?" Bahorel teased, but it sounded flat to his ears. Let it be nothing, let it be nothing, God in heaven, let it be nothing.

"I'll get it. Which volume were you looking for?" Grantaire said, and took one step forward, but got no further. Enjolras held up a hand.

"No, no. A moment." He took two short, harsh breaths and slowly straightened. With newfound resolve, he reached up again and pulled down the book. "A momentary dizziness." He said, and that child-like manner was once again painted across his features. "Shall we?" He indicated the door,.

"Enjolras--" Bahorel started, but was silenced by the look on his friend's face. A look of desperation, cold and hollow, so quickly changed from the innocent smile that had been there only a second before.

Bahorel took his friend's arm and said no more.

-------------------------

Combeferre stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. "How does that look?" Joly tapped his cane thoughtfully on the ground.

"I'm quite sure Enjolras will try to refuse it, but…from a medical standpoint, it looks quite comfortable. It will be better than sitting in these wretched things." He kicked a foot against his wooden chair.

Combeferre nodded, pleased. He'd taken most of the morning finding this chair, more of a bed than a chair, and finding a place for it in the small room of the Café was difficult and had required much rearranging of the other furniture. But it didn't matter. Enjolras would be able to sit here, comfortable, and that was what mattered. The others in the room (everyone, excepting Bossuet and Courfeyrac) had agreed.

He was about to inquire as to whether a blanket would be pushing it a bit too far when the door swung open from the hallway. Grantaire entered first, still looking unnaturally sober, and Bahorel came after, one hand on Enjolras' arm, gentle. Bahorel looked a shadow of his usual self, his eyes going from the ground to Enjolras, to the ground again in one continuous round. And if Bahorel looked pale, Enjolras was almost a corpse. The blue of his eyes was piercingly evident, like a spot of sky inbetween clouds.

"Welcome to your kingdom," Grantaire said. His eyes roved to the reclining chair against the wall. "And look, there's even a throne."

Enjolras immediately balked at the sight of the soft cushions. "No. We're meeting messengers from our equal brothers in the republic; I'll not have them find me holding court and betraying that equality."

"Not much of a court," Joly said, rising from his chair.

"A small court is still a court."

"I did spend considerable time finding that," Combeferre broke in.

Enjolras shook his head.

"Wouldn't it be more comfortable?" Jehan soothed with his poet's voice.

A scathing glare was his response.

"You'll either sit there or go back to your bed," Joly growled. It was one of those moments when he was stern as a grizzled ship's captain. "I'll not have you sitting with those ribs and that head aching against a wooden support." Joly cast the other members of the room a glance, and in that moment, it was decided.

Enjolras' eyes roved the room, and in each face he saw only resolve. With a monumental sigh, he allowed Bahorel to guide him over onto the cushions. He eased back slowly, carefully. A shadow flitted across Joly's face, a slight crinkling of his brow. He came closer. "You seem stiff." Enjolras raised one eyebrow noncommitedly. Joly frowned and moved to put one hand on his patient, but withdrew it as Courfeyrac and Bossuet burst into the room, followed by a nervous looking young man.

"Oh, you're here. We were worried you would be late." Bossuet exclaimed. His bald head glimmered faintly with a sheen of sweat.

"This is Jacques. He's from the regiment at Notre Dame." Courfeyrac said, and drew the trailing young man up to his side. "He's brought news."

"Monsieur…Enjolras?" The young man stammered. His hair was a snarled patch of brown atop his head. His eyes flicked up to meet the man in question, then lept back down.

"I am he. Please, have a seat." Enjolras said, gesturing with one hand.

"No, thank you…sir. I have news."

Enjolras exchanged a frustrated look with Courfeyrac. "So I've been told. What is it?"

"Sir…Francois de Decleaux is dead."

The silence was thunderingly loud. Enjolras struggled to his feet, ignoring Joly's attempts to pull him back down. "Dead?"

"Yes, sir."

'How?"

"A scuffle in the streets. Two men accosted him for his purse and when he had none…" The young man trailed off.

Enjolras was stone. If not for his breath, which came in harsh, slow drags, he could have been mistaken for a statue. "I see." He said at last. "I am…sorry. He was a good man. A true republican. A smart leader." He paused. "How is the work continuing in his absence?"

"That's…what I've come to tell you sir. It isn't."

"What?"

"There's two men. They both think they should take Decleaux's place. We…nothing can be done until someone in chosen." Silence. "Have you any questions for me?"

"No. No. Tell your comrades…tell them that the battle is not the war. The leader is not the republic. There is a higher purpose than their power struggle." Enjolras turned suddenly fierce. "You will tell them?"

The young man nodded and backed away, stammering, "Of course. Yes, sir." And he was gone.

There was a long silence. "A large blow, if we can't unite them again," Courfeyrac mused.

"We should go to them," Jehan said, the fervor of his idea igniting his voice. "Send a few of us, light the fire again."

"They'd listen to us." Bahorel said.

"They lost their faith." A quiet murmur. All eyes turned to Enjolras. Joly was tugging on his sleeve, murmuring for him to sit and rest, but the blue eyes went hard. "No! Our comrades have fallen apart. They…they believed in Francois, not the cause. Never the cause." There was silence, thick and heavy. "We talk of how we should fix this break. But can we? Are we any better than them?"

"Enjolras…" Joly said. "Please…"

"In the name of heaven, let go!" Enjolras cried, and tore his arm out of his friend's grasp. "Are we any better than they? They whom we look down upon and call our pupils? Are we qualified teachers?" Enjolras paced away, his stride strong with anger. He looked toward the map upon the wall.

"Enjolras," Combeferre said softly. "What do you mean?"

"Do you truly believe in the cause?" Enjolras murmured. "Or is it me you look to?" No one spoke. "Supposing the barricade sprung up tomorrow, would you fight for her if I were gone? When I am gone, will you fight for France?"

No one spoke. Then Bahorel, his eyes shadowed, balled his hands into fists. "When you are gone?"

"When I am gone."

"You speak of it so absolutely."

Silence. "I do."

"Then you do not expect to survive the fight for freedom?"

Enjolras turned his face up, that beautiful face, those angel eyes. He seemed piercingly hurt, a powerful stag brought down by a maiming hunter's arrow. Grantaire took in a breath. He would have given anything to destroy that anguish. Anything.

The shapely lips curled around a word. "No."

It was as though a barrel of powder had exploded in the Café. Those seated came to their feet; those standing paced. Voices flew, echoing around the small space.

"Are you mad?" Courfeyrac, eyes blazing.

"You can't truly believe that." Feuilly, orphan tears glistening pitifully.

"No! Never!" Combeferre, his spectacles askew.

"You must be ill." Joly, wanting to usher Enjolras back to his chair, afraid to touch him for fear he might be burned away.

"It's confinement, he's been in bed so long…" Bossuet, confused and worried.

"Can't possibly…"

"Won't ever…"

"Surely…"

The voices rang, each friend trying to escape the inferno created by that one little word. One voice escalated above all the rest.

"Enough!" Quiet. Bahorel strode forward until he was toe to toe with Enjolras, his fiery gaze scorchingly hot, burning through the other's cool resolve. "He's in earnest."

"But why?" Jehan murmured. He had come to Feuilly's side, and the pair of them were pitiful, the poet and the orphan.

"I cannot compromise. Decleaux was also unwilling to negotiate, and he is dead."

Bossuet broke in. "A pair of robbers in an alley is hardly reason to resign yourself to death."

"It's not the robbery. It's what it represents." Only blank stares. "He was unwilling to compromise on something so small as a purse. How much greater is freedom? Freedom is purity, light, all that is good. How can I hope to ascend into its glory if I am tainted by the stain of concession? No. I must be unfailing in my resolve. Were someone to hold a gun to my temple and ask me to renounce my politics, my blood would soon color the cobblestones." He was quiet again, his eyes roving the map on the wall, lingering on the place labeled 'Paris'. He spoke again, slowly, with less fervor. "I am known. My name is written on the walls of the government. They wish me quieted. And they are still powerful, until the people take their power." He paused. "I will not survive. How can I? But that has little importance. What matters is that the work carries on. Were I to die tomorrow, I could do so in peace as long as the _work goes on_."

It was a terrible silence that followed, each man thinking to himself. Then Bahorel spoke again, and as he did, every eye lifted to see him. He was not a handsome man, neither remarkably tall nor remarkably intelligent. Nothing set him apart from the common men milling about on the streets. But something in his words lent him a spark of godliness and made him look a hero carved into marble.

"France. She is our nation. She gave us life. She fed us, clothed us, sheltered us. You wonder if the work would go on?" His voice rose to a shout. "I would _die _for France, if She asked it of me. And I would not question it." A general cry of agreement. "But I would also die for you, for you are France. Your goodness is Her goodness, your beauty is Her beauty, your vengeance is Her vengeance. For Apollo Enjolras, I would bleed in the streets, I would be hung from the trees, I would sacrifice _everything_."

"Do not say it." Enjolras said, his tone molten steel.

"I would die for you! And why should I not say it? You fear to cause us pain, that is why you refuse our loyalty. You fear that we will do exactly as I have said, and that our deaths will be upon your shoulders. You fear because you love us, and you cannot bear us loving you. But we do. And we will until we enter our graves. Can you not see it? Were you to die, it would be a dagger in our hearts. We could bear your death no better than you could bear ours."

Enjolras could say nothing.

Bahorel took his hand in both of his. "I swear that when I fall, it will be with you, whether that be in some forsaken alleyway, or upon the holy barricade. I will fall with you."

Combeferre stepped forward. "And I."

Without hesitation, Courfeyrac did the same, and Bossuet, and Jehan, and Joly. Feuilly came forward, tears in his eyes and went to his knees. "I will not see you die, even if I am with you. I will die before you. I could not bear the red of your blood upon these dirty streets. I will die before." He wept into Enjolras' side.

Enjolras closed his eyes. "You cannot ask me to accept these…pledges."

"We have already pledged ourselves. The work will continue for France. And for you." Bahorel said. They all spoke softly. The moment was sanctified.

Grantaire was silent throughout. His spirit cried to fall to the ground and make that same vow of friendship and brotherhood, but his tongue could not. France. What did he care for France? France had not Enjolras' mind, nor his wit, nor his charity, nor his beauty. Any other country meant as much. He could not vow it. He was suffocating amidst minds higher than his own. He had to go and remove his taint from their unblemished friendship.

He had turned to depart, when he heard Joly say softly, "You need air, Enjolras. Outside for a moment." It was too lovely to watch for Grantaire to walk away. Each friend strove to help, to keep one arm on their leader, their comrade, their friend. The drunkard longed to join them. He shadowed them, following a few paces behind as they stepped into the sunshine. It was peaceful, the early afternoon light gleaming upon them, the familiar sights and sounds of their city loud and colorful. "That's better." Joly said, and Grantaire could see that indeed there was a tint of color on Enjolras' face again.

And then they were there.

Police, swarming suddenly, streaming out of doorways, a number of perhaps fifteen. Their hands reached and their sticks pounded. Grantaire lurched forward and rammed his fist against one's temple. He fell without a sound. He looked hurriedly about him. The friends had been dragged apart, though the police were having a difficult time keeping it so. Feuilly was screaming, "I will go before, I must go before!" And Bahorel was howling, "You will all _die _if you harm him!" They sounded very much mad. All the students were clawing and swinging and screaming, all trying to return to a certain point.

Enjolras.

He was cornered against the building. Three officers were advancing slowly, carefully, no doubt worried that the madness of his friends applied to him also. One came forward. Enjolras reached out and slammed his fist into the man's mouth, spurting blood down his chin, but the movement cost him dearly. His injuries screamed in protest and he retreated against the wall again. The officer reeled back, swearing and signaled his partners to move in. The second noticed the bandages behind the student's shirt and rammed his stick into Enjolras' ribs viciously. He screamed and wrapped one arm around himself instinctively, his knees buckling. He struggled to stand for a moment, but with another jab, his eyes rolled backward behind delicate lids. He crumpled to the ground and did not move.

There was a surge in the efforts of the others, but a voice cried out, "No! No, stop it!"

It was Jacques. The student from Notre Dame stepped forward into the light. "It's him they're after! Stop struggling and they'll let you go!"

Bahorel's eyes narrowed, the world red with hate. "You! You traitor!"

"No, please!" He protested. "Decleaux…he's in prison. They said if…if I could find Apollo Enjolras, they'd let him go! We need him, don't you understand!"

The last thing Grantaire remembered before a stick caught him in the head was Bahorel, eyes wide and tongue incoherent with rage tossing aside the police in his way and pounding his fists into Jacques body until he screamed for mercy, and even after.

Then blackness.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! I apologize for taking so long. :) Drop a review on your way out!_


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